Repeat Infinitely
by Lady Scarlet Hecate
Summary: Mix, cut, put together again, every night he repeats the same movements endlessly, pointlessly. Noiselessly. Infinitely.


Repeat Infinitely

He never makes any noise when he prepares his deck. He can spend the whole day shouting and laughing, but those hours in the dead of the night are always silent. He can only hear the sounds of his breath and of the cards shuffling. And that is how he likes them. Quiet. Peaceful. Calm. Dead.

Pick up, flip, place, over and over until his mind is empty. Silent Swordsman. Silent Magician. Marsh Melon. Cracked Hatchet. Golden chest of Sealing. His actions are almost mechanical, like he is a robot that was given a human shape. After all, why shouldn't they be? Mix, cut, put together again, every night he repeats the same movements endlessly, pointlessly. Noiselessly. Infinitely. It has become something of a habit, a constant in his fast-paced, ever-changing life.

Flip, place, mix, cut, he might as well be cooking. The same steps, over and over, ending in the same result. Hours of silence led him to think that preparing a deck and preparing a meal are two related actions. You take different 'ingredients', you put them together and the outcome can be either good or bad. His is always the same because he doesn't like special dishes and prefers to know what is in his plate.

Hours of silence also led him to think that he thinks a little too much. He feels but does not hear his own chuckle. What he holds in his hands cannot be compared to a hamburger.

This pack of cards is a special one. He never touches it during the day. For all intent and purpose, it does not exist under the sunlight. Those cards aren't the ones he brings to school, the ones he uses during the tournaments. But they mean so much more to him than what was once his grandfather's deck and modified beyond recognition. The fondness he has for the Black Magician is nothing compared to what he feels for them, his beloved monsters of dawn and twilight and endless silence. Nothing. The other, the others, would not understand that feeling, and he knows it.

They are his secret, his nightly children of paper and ink. His most terrible, painful, beautiful secret. He could tell his loved ones his secrets, any secrets, but not that one. No one knows about them. No one would know about them, if he had anything to say about it. Not his grandfather with a love of games. Not his friends and their nearly complete knowledge of him. Certainly not the other half of his soul.

Being host to another soul means a certain lack of privacy. It took him a while, at first, to get used to checking on the other and making sure the coast is clear. But there had been many near misses, and he is a fast learner. It is automatic now, to listen for any noise, to make sure nothing is disturbing the quiet of the house. Just like everything else. Some people could have found such a routine boring, but to him it is a checkpoint, a way to feel secure.

Few others would be able to keep on going like this, but his schedule doesn't cause him problems. Even as a young child, he would stay up late with only his toys and games for company. The secrecy could have been harder to maintain, but he is used to hiding behind another. Keeping his secret can be hard sometimes, but not as hard as sealing his own self away for the sake of the other. He gives it as much thought as breathing these days.

Minutes and hours and days and weeks pass, and nothing changes, nothing moves, on the outside at least. The same cards are mixed the same way. But there is a feeling of urgency now, a feeling of anticipation. He knows it and they know it and they are waiting for that day, binding their time. He knew long before he was told, he knew from the beginning. They know, they have known for a long time, that it will end like this. He is ready now. The body is over, the conclusion arrives. The story is about to end. Soon.

The black sky is turning dark blue, and the blue is followed by greens and yellows. Quietly, he hides the cards and tucks himself in his bed, trying to catch the few hours of sleep he can still have.

In his sleep, the duelist of silence smiles. Yes, the time will come. Soon.


End file.
